Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy(64)
‘He wants me to tell him to lick things,’ she said dully, slumping on my sofa, clutching her phone, staring morbidly ahead.
Obviously I had to stop everything and listen. Turns out Snowboarderguy, with whom it has been going quite well for three weeks now, has suddenly revealed he is into sexual humiliation.
‘Well! That’s all right!’ I said comfortingly, putting a delicate swirl in the froth of her decaffeinated Nespresso ristretto cappuccino, feeling, as always with my new Christmas Nespresso machine, slightly like a barista in Barcelona.
‘You could tell him to lick . . . you!’ I said, handing her the beautifully constructed beverage.
‘No. He wants me to say things like, “Lick the soles of my shoes, lick out the toilet bowl.” I mean, it’s just not hygienic.’
‘You could get him to do useful things like housework. Maybe not the toilet bowl, but washing-up!’ I said, trying to put the gravity of her situation above my own hurt feelings at not having my cappuccino-froth design praised, or at least commented upon.
‘I’m not having him lick my washing-up.’
‘He could lick it to get the worst off, then put it in the dishwasher?’
‘Bridget. He wants to be sexually humiliated, not wash the dishes.’
Was desperate to cheer her up, particularly as everything was now going so well for me.
‘Isn’t there something humiliating you might enjoy?’ I said, as if persuading Mabel to go to a children’s party. ‘What about . . . blindfolds?’
‘No, he says he doesn’t like the 50 Shades stuff. It has to be, like, I’m just making him feel disgusting. Like he said he wanted me to tell him he had a really small penis. It’s just not normal.’
‘No,’ I had to concede. ‘That’s not really normal.’
‘Why did he have to wreck it? Everyone meets online now. Turning out to be nuts is such a cliché.’
She threw her iPhone crossly onto the table, which knocked into the cappuccino and completely ruined my design on the froth.
‘It’s a zoo out there,’ she said, staring morbidly into space.
DIRECTION!
Tuesday 14 May 2013
1 p.m. Just nipped to Oxford Street, delighted to find that Mango, Topshop, Oasis, Cos, Zara, Aldo, etc. have all read the same edition of Grazia as me! Looking at the real-life clothes after so long looking at the websites was almost like seeing film stars in real life after seeing them in magazines. Now have full celebrity-at-airport outfit comprising skinny jeans, ballet pumps, shirt, blazer and sunglasses though not the – perhaps requisite – enormous overpriced handbag.
Wednesday 15 May 2013
Minutes wasted trying and failing to look like Red Carpet Girl 297, minutes spent putting navy silk dress back on 2, number of times worn navy silk dress in last year 137, cost per wearing of navy silk dress since purchase minus ￡3 per hour – therefore navy silk dress actually more profit-making than self. Which is good. Also Buddhist.
10 a.m. Just setting off for Greenlight meeting in new outfit! The Leaves in His Hair seems to be galloping on apace. A director is attached: ‘Dougie’! The meeting, as usual, is ‘exploratory’, like at the dentist when you know you’re going to end up being drilled.
10.15 a.m. Just caught sight of self in shop window. Look completely ridiculous. Who is this person in shirt buttoned up to neck and skinny jeans, which make thighs look fat? Am going to go back home and change into navy silk dress.
10.30 a.m. Back home. Am going to be late.
11.10 a.m. Bumped into George in the corridor as I was running hysterically along in the navy silk dress. Screeched to a halt, thinking George had come out of the meeting to tell me off for being late and always wearing the same outfit, but he just said, ‘Oh, Leaves meeting, right, right, sorry, conference call. I’ll be with you in ten or fifteen.’
11.30 a.m. It’s much more relaxed, now, with Imogen and Damian, and we waited happily in the boardroom for George and Dougie, eating croissants, apples and miniature Mars bars. Tried to bring up skinny jeans issue but Imogen started talking about whether it was better to get clothes from Net-a-Porter in the fancy packaging, because it was so nice opening the black tissue paper, or to go for plain ecopackaging because it was easier to send them all back and also save the planet, and I tried to join in pretending I actually buy things off Net-a-Porter instead of just looking at them and going to Zara, when George BURST through the door, minus Dougie, with his usual ‘I’m on the move’ swooping movement, and talking in his deep powerful voice, whilst clicking through his emails.
‘The trouble with George is that he always seems to be somewhere else,’ I started thinking piously, whilst feeling my phone vibrate. ‘He’s always either just about to talk to someone else, or talking to someone else or emailing someone else or just getting on or off a plane.’ I glanced down to open my text, thinking, ‘Why? Why? Why can’t George just be where he is? “Oh, oh, look at me, I’m in the air, I’m a bird, why don’t we all have breakfast in China?”’
Text was from Roxster.
<Shall I sneak round after the kids are in bed tonight? So I can give you another blow-by-blow account of last night’s rugby?>
The whole George distraction issue means you have to fit everything you want to say to him into the length of – appropriately enough – a tweet. Though, actually, maybe that’s good in some ways. You see, I’ve noticed that, whereas men, as they get older, get all grumpy and grunty, women start talking too much and gabbling on and repeating themselves. And, as the Dalai Lama says, everything is a gift, so maybe George being so busy is a way of teaching me not to gabble on but—